


Turnabout

by PippinTheRenegade



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aggression, Blood, Canon Era, M/M, Vampire AU, stop judging me i can see you there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6601339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PippinTheRenegade/pseuds/PippinTheRenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Combeferre have been in the revolution business for a while, though you wouldn't know it from looking at them. What does a vampire care for human equality anyway? On the barricade, they realized exactly how much they had lost, and they refuse to let go of the men they have a chance to hold onto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout

**Author's Note:**

> [This post](http://theblazeofmemory.tumblr.com/post/143011069659/theblazeofmemory-someone-else-tell-my-brain-that) contains some background information you may find pertinent to the story.

Eight. Enjolras could not help the sarcastic smile on his face. Eight shots would be mortal, if he were any normal man, so he would fall. And then he would get back up before the sun and start again, perhaps this time in a more personal manner and starting with these men here. Combeferre would object, of course, but maybe this night would put enough fire in the scholar’s veins to spur him into action. Civil protests and honest rebellion would only get them so far, it seemed. Maybe the troop behind that bleeding guillotine had something right after all.

The sound of footfalls on the stairs drew his attention away from the guardsmen, and Enjolras could feel the color drain from his face as he recognized the newcomer. Grantaire. No. He had been safe downstairs! Why come here now? Enjolras swallowed hard and watched, frozen, as the drunk stumbled through the soldiers toward him.

Grantaire’s warm fingers entwined with Enjolras’ cold ones, and the guards raised their rifles and took aim. Enjolras made to step in front, his grip tightening as he pulled Grantaire behind him, but gunfire filled his ears before he could move. Five bullets dug into him, deep and hot as fire, and Enjolras had to let himself fall.

Enjolras lay in the dust and debris, watching the soldiers through half closed eyes as they slowly filed out and down the stairs. The last of their number stepped up, nudging Enjolras’ boot with his own, and shook his head. “Just boys,” he muttered, and Enjolras cursed him. “Quite the shame.” He turned on his heel and left.

After an agonizing minute, certain the soldiers were gone, Enjolras finally stirred. He barely registered his own injuries, turning instead to focus on Grantaire. The artist leaned against the wall, his chin resting heavily on his chest and arms slack by his side. He had taken the other three shots: in his leg, his side, and one straight through a lung. His breathing came in irregular, ragged gasps, and he fought for every one.

Enjolras panicked, fear and confusion mingling with the fury already burning in his chest. Since when did he care so much about a single man? It had been for France, the whole country, since the onset, but now the only thing he could see was Grantaire, broken and dying, and it scared him. He had been so happy when he glimpsed Grantaire on his own, asleep and unharmed in a corner, but the cynic had stubbornly stomped on that when he came upstairs. And now they were here.

He pulled Grantaire close to his chest, stroking his fingers through the dark curls and trying to calm his own fears. There had to be something he could do. “Stay with me, R,” he muttered, his gaze straying down to meet Grantaire’s eyes. He couldn’t give up on this, not yet.

A solution itched at the back of his mind, now that he was calm enough to find it. Turn him. Grantaire. It was stupid and risky, and Combeferre would probably kick him for even trying it, but the ebbing life in his arms seemed far more important right now. He set Grantaire back against the wall, prompting a weak grunt of pain, and shifted to sit in front of him, one hand cupping the artist’s cheek to hold his head up.

“Grantaire, I need you to listen for once in your life.” Enjolras’ hand shook as he pulled loose the buttons on the other man’s waistcoat. The bloodstain slowly crept through the shirt beneath, and he cringed at it. He was running out of time. “This is going to hurt. You’re going to die, but you will come back, you hear me? I’ll be right beside you. Just come back to me.”

Grantaire tried to respond, but the blood in his lung reduced his voice to a sputtering cough. There was desparation in his eyes, and fear, and Enjolras did his best to block that image out. This plan, if he could even call it that, was risky for them both, but he would rather take that risk than watch Grantaire go.

Enjolras untied Grantaire’s cravat with one hand and brought the wrist of the other to his lips, slicing his teeth through the thin skin of his own arm. A thin river of red wound a track down to the sleeve of his coat. He cast about to the debris for a cup or something… the bottom of a broken bottle caught his eye, and he had it in hand and held to catch the blood. With a little aggravation, he soon had enough for a drink.

“Here. This will help.” Enjolras held the least ragged edge of the glass to Grantaire’s lips and tipped it up. Grantaire swallowed it down, much to Enjolras’ relief, and a bit of the color came back to his cheeks. Good. “That was the easy part.”

Enjolras dropped the bottle to the floor with a thump. “Hard part,” he muttered, shifting closer while his fingers loosened the collar of Grantaire’s shirt. “Still with me?” A nod. “Good.” He replaced the glass with his wrist and waited until he saw Grantaire drink again, then closed the distance to the cynic’s throat. After a steadying breath, Enjolras bit down, hard, into the soft flesh at the base of Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire went stiff but lacked the strength to fight back.

He tasted sweet and wonderful, like a dozen drinks Enjolras would never try. Just like he had that night in the alley, when Enjolras had slipped, before the barricades and the funeral and Grantaire’s beautiful, drunken ramblings had joined the chorus in the Musain. Enjolras dug in again and felt the heartbeat on his tongue flutter. At least the dying felt euphoric from what he remembered, though that knowledge did little to soothe the guilt clawing at his stomach; it was the coming back that hurt like hell.

A minute more, and Grantaire went slack against him, his heartbeat slowing to nothing. Enjolras released him at last and wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, examining his work. Hopefully this would take. Hopefully the effort would not be in vain. Hopefully.

Enjolras slipped one arm under Grantaire’s legs and the other around his back, lifting the man with an effortless grace. The sun would be up soon, and they had to move. He carried Grantaire down the stairs, whispering words of encouragement to deaf ears all the while, until he stood on the last step to the main floor of the Musain. He gaze strayed to the barricade outside, half torn down already, and set his jaw. Later.

He walked around the counter and tapped his heel on the rug; the sound echoed through the hollow of the wine cellar below. A moment later, the hatch creaked open, and Combeferre peered up at him from the gloom. “Enjolras!” he cried, a weary grin pulling at his features. He cocked his head and gestured to the body. “Is that-?”

“Grantaire, yes,” Enjolras answered before he could finish. “Help me with him.”

They got Grantaire through the trap door  and laid him out on the floor of the cellar- an oddly appropriate place, Enjolras thought with a smirk as he latched the door. Even if the soldiers found the entrance, they wouldn’t be able to get in through that, and the tunnels under Paris were a trapping maze if you didn’t know the way.

Combeferre knelt over Grantaire, gently checking him over. “You did a number on this shoulder,” he commented, trailing his fingers over the bullet wound in the artist’s chest.

Enjolras huffed a laugh, swallowing down the protective urge that bubbled up the moment Combeferre touched Grantaire. He averted his eyes, focusing instead on a shadowed figure slumped against a barrel in the corner. “I doubt you left Courfeyrac in any better shape,” he said as he settled in on the floor.

“How did you-?” Combeferre shook his head. “I should know better than to hide things from you by now.”

“Yes, you should.”

Combeferre sat beside Enjolras and leaned against his shoulder. “So now we wait?”

“We wait.”

* * *

An hour- that felt like an eternity- passed before Courfeyrac stirred again. Combeferre half ran to his side and pulled him close, mumbling small explanations before Courfeyrac could ask anything. Courf was shaky and sore, but he looked no worse for wear than the rest of them, and when he laughed at some small joke Ferre made, he laughed like Courf.

Enjolras stood and dusted himself off, casting a long look at the still-gone Grantaire before moving on to one of the wine racks. He pulled out an unlabeled bottle, gave it an appraising once-over, and picked at the cork as he carried it over to the pair. “Congratulations,” he said, tapping Combeferre on the shoulder with the bottle. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Courf. Try to stay a little longer this time; this kind of trick only works once.”

Combeferre snatched the bottle away and pulled the cork. The metallic scent of blood seeped into the room, and Courfeyrac looked surprised at how his own body reacted to it. Hungry. “Easy,” Combeferre warned as he handed it over. “This is new for you. Don’t overdo it.”

“You worry too much,” Courfeyrac shot back before pressing the bottle to his lips. He drank long and deep, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. The bottle tinked against the stone as he set it back down. “So it’s true, then. All of it?”

Combeferre nodded. “Every bit.”

“And I didn’t dream taking three bayonets in the chest, then?” Courf ran his fingers over the slowly healing gashes in his torso and shivered. “Suppose not.”

“Rest and eat, Courf,” Enjolras said, cracking a smile. “It is good to have you back, but you need to recover before-”

“Apollo..?”

Enjolras froze, the words dying in his throat. He turned to where Grantaire lay and saw the man curled in on himself like he had been kicked. He sputtered a cough and choked out the name again. Enjolras was by his side in an instant.

“I’m here. It’s me,” Enjolras whispered back, and Grantaire’s eyes opened to find his face. “I said I’d be here, didn’t I?” He ran his hand through Grantaire’s hair, tucking a stray curl behind his ear, barely able to restrain the urge to check over every inch of him. Grantaire was fine, he told himself; he could talk and see and had come back again. Fine.

Grantaire tried to sit up. He got off the floor, teetered, and fell forward into Enjolras. “Heaven looks like a wine cellar,” he mumbled, his fingers digging into Enjolras’ shirt for support. “Doesn’t smell like a wine cellar.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but that isn’t where you are.”

“You’re right. Everything hurts too much to be heaven.” Grantaire pulled himself closer and buried his face in the crook of Enjolras’ neck. “And it can’t be hell if you’re here. Did we survive the barricade?”

“Not exactly. You have a bullet in your lung.” A shiver raced along Enjolras’ spine as Grantaire’s lips grazed over his skin in a poorly coordinated kiss. Damn this man. “How much do you remember?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Bits and pieces, I think,” he said, adding a second kiss over the first. “Your hand was cold. I heard the gunshots and saw you fall, and then I was on the floor, and you were fine. You gave me something. I could hear you talking. Then it’s blank until now.”

Enjolras nodded. “Sounds right,” he murmured, tilting his head away as Grantaire dragged the affection up his neck. The artist traced over the vein and breathed a growl that rumbled deep in his chest, and Enjolras pushed away a second too late. A strong arm around his back held him tight, pinning his arms against his side; sharp, new fangs slit into the side of his throat with surprising ease. Enjolras cast a desperate eye to the already standing Combeferre and sputtered some strangled call for help.

Ferre caught Grantaire by the collar with one hand, and the sudden tension on his throat snapped Grantaire back to his senses. He dropped Enjolras, and Combeferre set him back on the floor and pushed an unopened wine bottle into his hands. “Congrats, Enjolras,” Ferre said, the sparkle in his eye almost mocking, “he’s a natural. I’m impressed. No one ever gets that close to you.”

Enjolras shot him a glare and pressed a hand to the bloody ruin on the side of his neck. “Shut up, Combeferre,” he growled, more angry at himself than anything. He should have known better. Food first, that was how it had been when they both changed before; food, then answers. He glanced to Grantaire, who decidedly avoided his gaze as he fiddled with the bottle. “You did fine,” he added with a softer tone.

Grantaire shook his head. “I hurt you,” he mumbled, working to cork free at last. He inhaled the tang of iron and brought the bottle to his lips with a practiced motion, then made a face. “I’d prefer a Cabernet, but this suffices.”

“Yes, but I messed up. There’s an order to these kinds of things, and I know those instincts are strong. You were reacting, Grantaire. I should have known better,” Enjolras said stubbornly. Combeferre knelt beside him and pried his fingers away to get a look at the wound. “Would you quit fretting over me? We have more important things to attend to than an injury of little consequence.”

Courfeyrac hovered behind Combeferre, unsteady on his feet, his tongue running over his sharpened teeth as he considered the situation. “Like what?” he asked at last and sat beside Grantaire. He leaned against the artist and sighed. “The barricade fell, our friends are dead or arrested. We failed. What else is there to do?”

Combeferre prodded at Enjolras’ wound, and he flinched away. “Find Jehan, for one,” Enjolras said, waving Ferre’s hand away. “He’s been missing too long for my comfort, though I doubt a single gunshot was enough to kill him.”

“Jean Prouvaire is with Patron Minette.” The fifth voice came from behind them. The entrance to the tunnels hung open, and the solid black clad form of Montparnasse leaned on the doorway. “He has been since the National Guard left him for dead. Babet isn’t sure why he isn’t dead, but he lives still. Complains a little more than usual, and he worries about you.”

“Ah, Montparnasse.” Combeferre stood and wiped the blood from his fingers onto his pants. “Jehan’s pet human.”

“Hardly,” Parnasse cut in with a frown.

Combeferre continued anyway. “I was wondering when you would show up. I assume this means you expect us to follow you? If Patron Minette has room for four anyway.”

“For you?” Montparnasse cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Normally, I would say no. Four people would be one thing, but four vampires is a risk I would not take on my own. Jean wants you safe, though, so I have no choice but to tell you yes. Come along.”

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments and kudos fuel me; please keep me fed and happy.


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